


Lament for the Dead

by echoes_of_another_life



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/pseuds/echoes_of_another_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime. <br/>Therefore, we are saved by hope.<br/>Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history;<br/>Therefore, we are saved by faith.<br/>Nothing we do, however virtuous can be accomplished alone,<br/>Therefore, we are saved by love.<br/>No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own;<br/>Therefore, we are saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness.<br/><i>Reinhold Neibuhr</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lament for the Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kita0610](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kita0610).



> Post, "Destiny"

Lament for the Dead

Angel wrapped the towel around his hips and ran his fingers through the damp tendrils of hair, which insisted on curling, no matter how short he had it cut. He sighed. His body ached, cramped in places he’d long forgotten could hurt, muscles that hadn’t made their presence known since, well since last time he’d fought with Spike, tensed and burned.

Christ, he hurt. And fuck if that hurt wasn’t just a little welcome.

He eased his fingers inside the folded edge of the damp towel, stretched as it slipped from his hips and wished not, for the first time, that he could see his reflection in the mirror. Not that it mattered; he didn’t need to see the bruises, the marks that marred the surface of his skin. He could feel every punch, every kick, every blow that Spike had landed. Every word that echoed in his head, every cry of blame ricocheted off the walls of his silent bedroom and settled on his shoulders like a lead weight.

_Drusilla sired me… but you… you made me a monster._

Only he couldn’t feel the pain back then, couldn’t feel the hurt as he’d taken William’s destiny, used and abused her and ridden a path straight to hell between her thighs.

But William had. William had felt every thrust like a knife through his heart as Angelus rutted his hips; thrust harder, taunting William with her groans of pleasure. Her pleasure had been William’s pain. Pain that had driven them both straight into a black abyss of hatred.

Hatred, which William had nurtured. Hatred, which Angelus had fed.

And which Spike had returned tenfold.

_Guess that means she was thinking about you... all those times I was puttin' it to her…_

He didn’t want to think about it, not then, not now. He didn’t want to wonder how many times or how many ways. Whether she thought of him, remembered him, loved him still, even as she cradled Spike between her tender thighs and lifted into his embrace. He didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the window looking in. He smoothed back the unruly strands of hair and fought the images of bodies entwined, long, slender limbs curved around pale muscular thighs. Images that snapped to awareness and crackled up his spine to lodge involuntarily in his brain. 

He tried to let go of the thoughts, tried to concentrate on the spaces in-between, the only place he ever felt close to experiencing peace, the quiet contrast to the noise of his existence and the memories that brought only emptiness, loss and pain. Tried and failed, as he always failed because deep down he knew, he did not deserve peace. Peace was for the forgiven, for those deserving of love, of hope. What hope did he have of ever gaining forgiveness after the things he had done? So many things, cruel, vicious things to so many. And there were many, so many innocents he thought as a vision of Drusilla overpowered all the others clambering for recognition. Like Dru. Like William.

_You’re not him…_

And for what?

Because he could. Because Angelus could. And nothing, not even those closest to him could convince him that he wasn’t the one who took their lives and destroyed them on a whim. He was still a vampire, still Angelus, still the monster who knew only one thing, pain. Knew it, savoured it and dragged it kicking and screaming into every life he touched, inflicted it, sustained it, minute after minute, hour after hour until he was satisfied, until he broke them. He was a killer, the soul couldn’t change that. 

_You have a heart? It isn’t even beating._

All it could do was robe him in a mantle of a man he could never be. 

Spike hesitated, his body ached from immobility, he clenched his fingers and bit his lip as his knuckles pushed hard against cracked, raw skin but the wounds were minor compared to festering, unseen bleeding beneath the flesh. Wounds that he’d long concealed, bandaged with battle-scarred skin as he slowly adjusted to the pain, pushed it so far down it couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be recognised until all it was, was pain. A pain that carried no memory of what made it hurt. 

And all it had taken was a few words, tasty morsels from the source, words which hung in the air between them before slithering towards their target, worming their way in to the hidden recesses of his body and peeling back the bandages on his wounds to find them festering and raw.

_No. You're less. That's why Buffy never really loved you: Because you weren't me._

Angel shifted on the bed, combed his fingers through his hair and sighed, every movement becoming a swell of raw emotional reality, that Spike wanted more than anything to ignore, to run from, hide from like he hid from the figure on the bed. And he would, any minute now, any second, as soon as his legs obeyed the screaming in his head, as soon as he could tear his eyes away from the vision in front of him.

Hatred seared him, raged within. Hatred for the demon that he was, hatred for the demon he’d come here expecting to see, the demon who shadowed his every thought, who taunted his dreams and stalked the shadows of his existence. Not this. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to witness it but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear his eyes from the man on the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes bankrupt of all emotion but pain and regret. 

_Regret…_

Spike couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, he was trapped in the reverie, unbroken by the harshness of words, of the vision of arms outstretched beckoning him, taunting him…

_There's no belonging or deserving anymore. You can take what you want, have what you want... but nothing is yours…_

And it never was his. Not really. Everything before now was just a memory, time that he’d borrowed, a way to escape the uncertainty, the pain of missed opportunities which a life such as theirs forced upon them. Just another way to escape from an otherwise meaningless existence, to distract from the misery, to be needed, even for a short while, for just one brief moment, to be wanted, to be held, cradled by the living.

But it was never his. Love was an illusion, just another desperate attempt at making himself real in the world. Only it wasn’t real, not really. The only real thing was here, now, this moment and all that stood between them. The horror, the ugliness of a past they had tried desperately to escape, tried desperately to avoid just as they had avoided each other. Just as they had been afraid to look upon each other and see everything they had shared. Rage and destruction, death and chaos, together they had been the cause of it all and relished in the moment. Savoured every scream, every desperate cry for mercy, watched and laughed as hope died, replaced by terror as limbs snapped and eyes closed and bodies were cast battered and broken on the bloodstained floor.

And then there was nothing, nothing but shame, toxic in its fury that smothered them in a shroud of confusion, self-loathing and abandonment…

The hatred Spike felt thawed under the realisation of the truth and the knowledge that this, this moment was what it was really like to share the slaughter of innocents with another man .

_So ask yourself: Is this really the destiny that was meant for you? Do you even really want it? Or is it that you just want to take something away from me?_

Spike paused, unsure whether he’d actually heard the words or whether they were just another echo of the past. In truth, it was both. He wanted it, wanted it more then anything. He wanted more than the illusion of arms that held him close, lips that brushed against his with words that breathed life into his dead heart and made him believe for just an instant that he was worthy, that he was real. He wanted more than the moment, more than the pretence that he was something other than just a monster.

But he didn’t need it. Not like _he_ needed it. He’d learned a long time ago that nothing was really his, no deserving and no belonging. He could take what he wanted but it would never be his. 

But none of that mattered because he had never needed it. He could take what he wanted, have what he wanted but he’d never be more real then he was now.

Here in this moment, hidden among the shadows, watching the one person he hated more than any other. Hated him for abandoning him, for leaving him, alone in a strange world he wasn’t ready to face. Leaving him with a woman he loved more than life itself because she was a part of his creation, a part of his new life and the only reminder of the one who sired her.

Drusilla sired him but Angelus made him a monster and a willing one at that. He had watched him, learned from him but more than that, he’d loved him. He’d hungered for him, an ever increasing hunger that refused to be satisfied; it supplemented itself, fed itself on hunger that couldn’t be sated. He’d re-lived it almost every night since they’d parted, the memories mocking him with their intensity until everything and everyone else ceased to exist. As Angelus ceased to exist.

But the hate remained. At least he’d fooled himself that it had. He’d held on to it, clung to it when the pain curled inward, dug deep into his skin and threatened to open the wound. Everything before this moment was just a memory, even the hate; it was just a reminder, a lonely prayer to the creator who didn’t want him. A monster that died a long time ago, replaced by the man Spike desperately needed to hate as much as William loved.

Just as he did now.

Spike froze when he heard the mattress give under movement and realised he’d taken a step forward, that his inability to run from Angel’s pain in no way impeded his ability to move closer to it. Fear overtook all other emotion as he took another step away from the protective embrace of the shadows. Fear that all of his attempts to cut through the reminders of the past, all of his earlier endeavours would be spent on regret’s sweat drenched floor.

Fear as Angel’s gaze sought out his, the look of loss reflected in his eyes cut him to quick and he knew in that instant that it wasn’t Angelus who had made him a monster, it was the need to be like him. It was his willingness to please, to make himself worthy. Angelus had asked and William had given, worn his submission like a badge of triumph. His pain had become a testament to his love, the love Angelus cast aside for the sake of his soul, love Spike disguised with the hate that had become his retribution. 

It wasn’t Angelus he needed to forgive, it was himself, he’d forgiven Angelus a long time ago, learned the meaning of true forgiveness under the gentle caress of one who’d loved them both. 

It was only his pride that remembered. 

Spike frowned, waited for Angel to say something, anything to break the silence. He lowered his gaze and focused on the ugly purple bruise that darkened the skin along Angel’s jaw line before making himself look at the wound he’d inflicted near his shoulder. So close to his heart, he thought as he counted the grazes, the cuts that followed a line down to his naked thigh. Spike swallowed, only now realizing that Angel was actually naked, he seemed more vulnerable somehow, more exposed … more alone. Spike stooped, picked up the damp towel from the floor and grimaced when he felt its dampness. He looked to the bathroom and then back at Angel, took the few necessary steps, threw the towel on the bathroom floor in favour of a dry one … and tried to disguise the shaking in his hand as he handed it to Angel.

All sense of hesitation disappeared as Angel reached for the towel without looking, head still bowed, eyes downcast but he didn’t move away, didn’t flinch from Spike’s presence.

“You knew I was here?” Spike whispered. He stepped back, moved to Angel’s side and eased himself on to the bed to sit alongside Angel, close but not close enough to touch.

“Always…” Angel answered. He fingered the warm towel, looked up slightly and glanced at Spike from beneath lowered lids.

“It’s when you’re not here that I…” Angel shook his head, sighed and dragged his eyes away from the brief glimpse of surprise and confusion in Spike’s.

What was the point, he thought, they had been through this so many times, shared so much, shared so many, willing and unwilling but not once did they ever come close to sharing each other. Angel stood, avoided looking at Spike, wrapped the towel around his hips, walked over to the window and opened the blinds, almost expecting to look out onto Victorian London, see the city’s many chimneys belching smoke and soot as it settled on the many feeble gas lamps. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to this, this view, the many lights, the expensive, luxurious view of Los Angeles. He was more familiar with the hidden corners, the places the lights couldn’t, didn’t want to reach. The forgotten corners where the only illumination was the many gutter campfires that cast an eerie glow on the unwashed bodies, the many forgotten souls that slept among yesterdays discarded newspapers. Times change but a person couldn’t change who they were, that was the true diabolical nature of time, no amount of cars, suits, or spectacular views could change that. He could dress like a man; have all the trappings and finery, unlimited resources at the touch of a button. But the reality … at the core of it all was untold squalor and filth.

Angel closed his eyes against the view, the bright lights, so different to the dense maze of filthy alleys that had once been his home. The dark twisting passageways that stank of filth and urine that led to the many taverns. Taverns lit by a few meager oil lamps that struggled amid the darkness and misery of the many occupants huddled together amongst the noise and stifling stench of society’s castoffs. Where his filthy, unwashed, vermin infested presence had often blended in, was welcomed.

Just to get a passing glimpse of him.

The taverns where he had secretly met Dru before they had moved on, leaving him behind. The many passageways he had taken her, fed from her, tried to crawl so deep inside her that she cried out in pain. 

Just to remember the taste of him.

And he had, all the long, lonely nights he’d spent alone, wandering the streets, trying to prove himself, to deny his soul, deny everything just to be near him.

_I can't. Oh god, I can't._

Fooling himself that he could be a part of the whirlwind, a part of the storm as they cut a swath across continent to continent and not suffer the consequences as he was pulled inward and left battered and bruised by its destructive force.

_I’m sorry..._

Monsters and Slayers, blood and guilt, lies and torment and mocking laughter that followed him long after they had gone. But even the stench of sewers and the taste of vermin couldn’t wash away the memory of him. And now the only lips to offer him peace, the only arms to hold him, cradle him like a man and love him despite the horrors that lurked within screamed **his** name. 

_It’s different. He’s different. He has a soul now_

Angel swallowed the memory of his last moments with her, the killer of his kind who had loved him like a man, made him believe for just an instant that he was the one only to remind him of the only one he could never have. 

He looked back at Spike who had sprawled out on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes closed, even in sleep, he wore a look of exhaustion but for once, the guarded look was gone from his face. He looked across at Spike’s battered boots thrown carelessly on the floor and almost smiled when he noted his coat, folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Old leather, scuffed and worn but deceptively soft to the touch. He stole another glance at Spike’s face as he slept and realised he had dropped all pretence along with the disguise. 

This was it, asleep in his bed. Had always been it. His fantasy. His reality. The good and the bad and everything in-between.

You can’t have the heart you made bleed, he reminded himself as he shrugged the towel loose and laid down beside Spike, pulled the cover over them both and rested his head on the pillow that for once wasn’t cold and wet. 

Spike drifted in and out of sleep, bright colours danced before his closed eyelids as he lay motionless, waiting for the sensation to pass. It was always the same, there were nights he lay in bed and wondered if he slept just to dream of him, waited for those times just to see him. And there were nights, like last night when he drank as much alcohol as he could without passing out, just so he wouldn’t wake to _his_ familiar smell. Nights when he wished, he could bend his love to hate him. Nights he prayed he could drown his brain in so much booze it couldn’t fool him that he was there, beside him only to try and hold on to the illusion as he turned his head and found the pillow beside him cold and bare. He inhaled deeply, desperate to hold on to the moment, to capture his scent, the feel of him before it faded, before he opened his eyes to the reality that he was alone, that he was always alone.

Maybe he hadn’t drunk enough last night, he thought as the illusion lingered, refused to retreat to the recesses of his memory where it could lay in wait, ready to taunt him once more. Maybe he’d drunk too much because it had had been a long time since he’d felt his warmth, fooled himself that he could actually feel the weight of _his_ arm slung carelessly over his hip in sleep. Or _his_ leg curled possessively over his own. 

And it had been even longer, if ever, that he had awakened to the feeling of comfort, of safety…

Spike opened his eyes, and stared at the unfamiliar wall in front of him, afraid to turn his head, afraid to shatter the moment, yet the hand against his hip felt warm and the weight that pinned him to mattress remained. He bent his knee slightly, flexed the muscles of his thigh and felt coarse hair bristle against his skin.

Skin?

Spike swallowed the fear, wondered when or who had undressed him and vowed never to drink again when the cruelty of his own imagination caused him to blink against the tears that threatened. He took a breath, blinked several times to chase away the last remnants of sleep, willing the dream to end. 

Since when did he ever wake next to Angelus and feel safe?

Spike couldn’t remember a single instance when the feel of Angelus’ arms around him brought him comfort. Could not recall one moment when the scent of Angelus caused him to ache with the need to shift closer, to turn and wrap himself around the body against his, to crawl so deep inside him that they were almost one person. But the feeling remained, the warmth, the illusion of safety, it was only the familiar scent that changed, it was Angelus, he was sure of it but…

It wasn’t… 

There was something different, almost tender about the hand that stroked his hip and the fingers that lightly caressed his skin.

“William…”

And the voice that whispered against his ear.

_Angel._

Spike was almost afraid to move, he lay still as images flooded his mind, as he remembered Angel sat on the bed, shoulders hunched. Remembered the sound of his voice, the sadness, the hint of loss and regret. 

_It’s when you’re not here that I…_

He wondered if it was just his imagination, just another way of fooling himself, when he thought he had heard the stirrings of hope.

Spike knew the instant Angel roused from sleep, felt the body curled around his tense, he waited for the recognition, the instant Angel instinctively pulled away to create space between them once more. Hatred had tied them together, hatred and a past that would forever haunt them no matter how hard they both tried to outrun it. It would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to rear its ugly head. But there were times when the hatred was forgotten, times when Spike caught Angel unawares, saw the look in his eyes for just an instant before the guarded expression returned. Times when he thought, he could hear past the hatred, like last night. 

Could they be free of the past? If they let go of the hatred? Could they let go of the hatred? Stop running from the past and walk freely into the next moment? Or would letting go of the hatred mean letting go of each other? He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, the only thing he knew, was here, right now, this moment, the moment in which Angel awoke, when the fingers caressing his hip stopped, tightened their grip and pulled Spike closer. 

Angel knew Spike was awake, sensed his indecision, wondered why he didn’t just leave, just as he always left him, as everyone left him sooner or later. He’d tried to cling to sleep, tried to hang onto the moment as long as possible before it was past and forgotten. Lost among the many departures, the many losses. He wanted the promise of hope in this bizarre trick of fate, the hope that not every goodbye meant forever, that sometimes, just sometimes people reappear long after he thought only memories remained because he couldn’t lose anyone else. He couldn’t lose Spike. Not now. If the passage of time had taught him one thing, it was that no one goes through life without paying the price, and he had paid. But somewhere along the way he’d come to realise that neither one of them had been given burdens to carry, which they didn’t have the strength or the courage to face.

Together, they could do anything. Face anything, except goodbye. 

He didn’t realise he’d pulled Spike closer, just the thought, the fear that any moment now he would grab his boots and his coat, look back at him with hate filled eyes and just walk away. He didn’t even realise that Spike had turned into his embrace until he felt fingers tangle in his hair and cool lips brush against his.

“Angel…”

Angel didn’t care whether it was a gesture of acceptance, a question or a demand, all that mattered was that Spike hadn’t left, that he was still here, in his bed, in his arms. Tomorrow they could argue, fight and trade insults to their hearts content but tonight the past was behind them, where it belonged, no more nightmares, no more demons to haunt his sleep and no monsters at his door. Just this, he thought as he explored Spike’s mouth with unhurried hunger, savoured the taste of him, the feel of arms that pulled him closer. 

Spike felt himself pushed back against the mattress as Angel rose above him, shifted until Spike felt his full weight settle between his parted thighs. He couldn’t recall a time Angelus had ever … not like this, never so he could see his face, look into his eyes. But this wasn’t Angelus, Spike reminded himself seconds before he lifted his gaze to stare into eyes that looked back at him questioningly.

Spike swallowed, hesitant to put a name to the emotion that he saw there, afraid to admit that the same emotion burned through him with the need to be sated. He reached up, stroked his fingers along the wound he’d inflicted earlier, smiled when he saw it was already beginning to heal. He brushed his fingers across Angel’s collarbone, along his jaw to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, wrapped one leg around Angel’s hip and pulled him down until nothing but a single breath separated them.

“The obedience of the slave kills the commands of the master,” Spike breathed as Angel ran his hand along Spike’s naked calf, upwards until Spike felt the hair on the back of his thigh bristle under Angel’s touch. 

Angel closed his eyes, breathed deeply as he took his weight on his forearms, felt the tension ease, the burden lift just as Spike lifted into him, felt his cock brush against Spike’s inner thigh, and moaned. He wanted to savour every touch, every caress, remember how he looked, now in this moment but it had been so long, so much time wasted, time they could never get back but there would be other moments, other times. There had to be, time to forget, to forgive and time to heal.

Time for them, he thought as he plunged forward and felt Spike’s warmth close around him.

Spike surrendered everything, his body, his hatred, let it go as he wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips and lifted in to his thrusts. Nothing else mattered, he could take what he wanted, have what he wanted and what he wanted was this. He closed his eyes against the dawn, the first ray of sunlight that forced its way past the necrotinted glass, and crept along naked skin as the last of the darkness vanished with the secrets it had seen.


End file.
